


Watching the Bees

by Shapeshifter99



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post 9x18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shapeshifter99/pseuds/Shapeshifter99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time since Cain's seen an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching the Bees

**Author's Note:**

> I think everyone's noticed the Dean/Cain, Sam/Abel and Castiel/Colette parallels.

For the first time in centuries, Cain finds himself surprised. Not at Dean Winchester; although unexpected, he’s been in the game too long to be surprised by being found by a hunter. Irritated, yes. Surprised, no.

It happens more than a month or two after the Winchester and Crowley show up at his doorstep, asking for the First Blade. Damn demon. Cain’s been hopping from country to country, finally settling himself in the state of Washington with the reasoning that Abaddon and her lackeys won’t expect him to be so close to his last house.

He can practically see the smug smirk on her face, and the words she’ll say venomously. _Coward._

He doesn’t care, really. Abaddon can go screw herself.

In any case, no demons come after him, and he spends most of his time watching over his bees (he took a crate with him), gardening, and resisting the urge to go to Colette’s grave. It probably helps that at first he doesn’t have any more unexpected visitors.

The operative words being ‘at first’.

It’s twilight, Cain’s favorite time of day, the perfectly captured moment between sunset and dusk. When the world stops and stills, and is bathed in soft purplish colors that remind him of the paintings Colette liked to make. On bitter days, he likens it to the color of bruises, of burst blood vessels beneath flesh. But today is a good day, and he can already sense that there’ll be dew sparkling in the long grass the next morning, and the stillness in the air is refreshing.

Then, beneath the lazy humming of the bees, Cain hears a familiar rumble. He looks up from the roses he’s tending, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the faint smudge of color on the road, in the distance.

A car.

He immediately becomes wary and straightens. He slowly tucks the stem-clipper into his belt and transports himself inside the house. The house is made up of iron fixtures, and there’s salt buried in the ground in an entire circle around the house, so he’s satisfied that whoever this is, they won’t get very far. But he wants to see who it is first.

Cain lifts one of the shutters on the window discreetly, and peers out with sharp eyes. He immediately spots the car, some vintage model that vaguely reminds him of those really bad black and white movies he would watch. The car creaks to a stop, and promptly lowers itself down like some old animal ready to hunker down for sleep, and Cain raises an eyebrow. Whoever this guy is, the Father of Murder isn’t impressed.

It’s only when his visitor gets out of the rust bucket of a car that Cain finally tenses. It’s an angel, he can see that immediately, with large, dark wings that faint and shimmer into another dimension only he can see, and a dim halo crowning his head. When Cain blinks, he sees what every other human would; a man, in his late thirties with dark hair, blue eyes, and a tan trenchcoat.

And he looks angry.

Cain scowls. What does Heaven want with him? He’s only just gotten the demons off his tail, now he needs to deal with the self-righteous dicks from above.

The angel crosses over the salt line with no hesitation, not that Cain was expecting otherwise. The bee-keeper lets the shutter fall down, and walks to the door, grabbing a knife along the way. It won’t do anything, and if it comes to it he could kill the angel with his bare hands, but he prefers to just send him on his way and be done with it.

By the time Cain opens the door, the angel is at the foot of his porch steps. The Father of Murder glares down at him and leans against the door frame.

“What do you want?” He says, his voice frigid enough to send even the toughest of demons scurrying for the warmth of Hell.

But the angel just stares at him, chin raised defiantly and blue eyes burning with unnatural fire. “Cain?” He asks, and the man in question resists the urge to laugh, because this angel knows who he is. He can probably smell the taint of murder on him.

“I _said_ ,” He says, making sure to coat his voice with as much boredom and contempt as possible, “What do you want?”

The angel’s eyes narrow. “You gave the Mark to Dean Winchester.” A statement, not a question.

Cain tilts his head slightly, then nods. “Friend of his?” He asks, an eyebrow raising. Angels and demons. The hunter certainly has strange allies.

The angel doesn’t respond, and Cain moves away from the door frame. “Considering you know who I am, and I don’t know yours, I think it’d be polite for you to tell me who you are.” He says indifferently.

For a moment, a mix of emotions crosses the angel’s face, and Cain feels a stir of surprise. He’s always associated angels with being stoic, unmoving, yet here's one that seems to have _feelings_. “Castiel.”

Cain frowns. He’s heard the name before, from other demons, but he’s too isolated to know enough to place this Castiel anywhere. “What do you want, Castiel.”

The angel shifts. “I need to know how to get the Mark off him.” He says finally, and Cain’s eyebrow raises even further.

“There isn’t any.” He says immediately, and it’s true in his mind. The only ways are lost to time, impossible to complete.

Castiel’s eyes flare, and once again Cain is struck by the flurry of emotion that seems to boil in the angel’s very being. “That isn’t good enough.” He practically hisses out, his posture turning aggressive.

Cain straightens as well, and even though he no longer has the Mark changing him, tainting his soul, a well-known anger rises up like a tidal wave. “Well, then, you best be on your way.” He growls back. “Because I don’t. Know. Don’t you think that if I had, I would have tried?”

He had, after Colette had saved him. For so long, even after her death, but he’d never found an answer.

Castiel scoffs. “Why on Earth would _you_ try to find redemption?” He spits darkly, and Cain feels another surge of rage.

“It’s always the same with you feathered morons, isn’t it?” He snarls, the storm cloud in his mind threatening to block out reason. “You listen to what your elders tell you, and you never bother to look for yourselves. I killed Abel, yes.” The words are still bitter on his tongue. “But it was to save him.”

“From what?” The angel snaps back. “From God?”

“ _No!_ ” Cain growls, and there’s satisfaction when he sees Castiel stop when he hears his vehemence. “Lucifer was corrupting him, tainting him. I traded my soul for his; mine in Hell for his in Heaven. The secondary price was that I had to be the one to kill him.”

Castiel’s face turns blank with shock, and Cain can already see the dismay behind his eyes. He knows that the angel can tell that what he says is the truth, and doesn’t try to argue his point further.

“I managed to get out of Hell, disappear.” Cain says bitterly, running a hand over his beard. “Cursed with the mark that Satan gave me. Your Dean came to me in search of the First Blade with that demon friend of his.”

If anything, Castiel’s face blanches further, and it makes Cain stop for a moment.

“A demon?” The angel rasps out, and the Father of Murder is caught of guard by the barely hidden panic- and hurt- that lies behind the query.

Cain looks down at him and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah.” He says grouchily, his anger fading with curiosity. “Named Crowley.”

At that, Castiel’s face twists with frustration, and he grits out, “ _Dammit_ Dean!” under his breath.

“I suppose he’s no friend of yours?” Cain says wryly.

The angel shakes his head, and his gaze lifts. “No.” He says coldly. “Crowley... Isn’t my friend.”

Cain shrugs. “To be fair, the Winchester didn’t seem to like him all that much either.” He says lightly, unsure as to why he feels the need to reassure the angel. “I got the impression that his help was a means to an end.”

The angel’s face darkens further. “It’s _always_ a means to an end.” He says lowly.

“Yes.” Cain admits. “But he didn’t seem to like the idea of it.”

Castiel barks out a laugh. “As if that changes anything.”

“Of course it does.” Cain says, his voice chilly once again. “Sometimes, people feel the need to do something they know is wrong for a greater cause.” _I did._

It seems to mean something to Castiel, because the angel’s bright blue eyes darken with helplessness. He’s silent for a moment, not the kind that Cain enjoys on an evening like this, but a silence that crawls up your back and into your brain, settling itself there like an itch you can’t scratch.

Unable to bear it any longer, Cain asks stoically, “Why do you care what happens to him?”

Castiel’s gaze lifts once again, and there’s something so blindingly innocent and determined on his face that it makes Cain balk. “Because he’s the best man I’ve ever known.” The angel says evenly.

It’s stunning, how in that moment, Cain is suddenly, painfully reminded of Colette. She used to tell him things like that, tell him that he was a good man, that he deserved to be saved. It twists his heart, in a way that’s both pitying and happy, because although it makes him jealous to understand that Dean Winchester gets to receive those kinds of praises, he can’t help but resign to the fact that he probably deserves it. Why else would an angel, of all creatures, say something like that?

“You love him.” His voice is blunt, but he watches Castiel’s face intently.

The angel’s mouth is already open in denial before what the Father of Murder said sinks in. “No-” He starts, then abruptly stops. Cain watches as another rainbow of emotions crosses the angel’s face. It’s strange; like seeing a normally blank canvas suddenly start shifting colors. Denial, disbelief, shock, hope and understanding all flit across the angel’s face like minnows chasing each other. Castiel’s mouth snaps shut, and he glances down, then up at Cain wonderingly, and the bee-keeper feels the urge to turn away, because this isn’t something he should be seeing, something sacred and pure that should have nothing to do with a stained soul like his.

Castiel is still stunned into silence, so Cain decides to rip off the bandage before he can get too hopeful. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He says plainly, and he watches with pity as the angel snaps back to the present and his face turns despairing. “The only thing I can tell you is...” He hesitates, and watches as Castiel’s focus becomes more potent. “Stay with him. Let him know you’re there. Colette did that for me, and until she died, I was happy and the Mark had no effect.”

Realization crosses the angel’s face as he understand that he loved Colette, and that she saved him. Despite that, he shakes his head and says determinedly, “I’ll find a way to get rid of it.” He says strongly.

“Hm.” Cain says, trying to hide his pity. “But just in case...” He pauses. “Don’t go off doing stupid, self-sacrificing things and getting yourself killed. That’ll only make it worse. And that means getting rid of the grace.”

He can see it now, the bright splash of wrong in the center of the angel’s being. Every few heartbeats, it expands and shrinks, flaring brightly then fading into practically nothing. He has no doubt that it must hurt Castiel, but there’s probably a reason why the angel’s keeping it for now.

Castiel nods his head in acquiescence, but Cain can see the doubt in his eyes.

“Now leave, before more angels or demons come searching for me.” Cain says before turning around and closing the door behind him as he enters his house.

A few minutes later, he checks the window, and is relieved to see the angel is gone. “Certainly not the strangest conversation I’ve had.” He muses to himself as he goes out one last time to check on the bees.

_Hopefully the last,_ lingers in his mind like a stream of water washing away dirt. He feels calm at the thought of death. In fact, he’s waiting for it.


End file.
